It was a “wonderful clear night of stars” when, having circled the town in his aimless wandering, he found himself opposite the schoolhouse gate and calm enough to allow his thoughts to dwell definitely upon Esther.  She, at least, was safe, and the knowledge brought pure thankfulness.  Not for anything in the world would he have had her entangled in this tragic coil.  Leaning over the gate he saw the school steps, faintly white in the starlight.  It needed small effort of imagination to see her there as he had seen her that first day—­a happy girl, looking at him with the long, straight glance of unawakened youth.  A great wave of protecting love went out to meet that vision.  Self was lost in its immensity.  As he had found her, so, please God, she was still and so he would leave her.

Then, somewhere in the back of his brain, a question sprang to vivid life.  Was she the same?  He knew that all day he had been fighting back that question.  Last night something had frightened him—­something glimpsed for a moment in Esther’s face when she had come in from the garden to say good-night.  Fancy, perhaps, or a trick of the lamplight.  She could not really have changed.  He would not allow himself even to dream that she had changed.

By this time she would know about himself and Mary—­know all that any one was to know.  He had insisted upon that.  Mary had promised to tell her to-day that they were to be married soon.  Next time he saw her she would look upon him with different eyes; eyes which would see not her sometime friend and companion but her step-mother’s future husband.  He must steel himself for this.  Probably she would laugh a little.  He hoped she would laugh.  Last night she had looked so—­she had not looked like laughter.  If she should laugh it would answer the last doubt in his heart.  He would know that she was free.

Presently he felt himself to be unbearably weary.  Physical needs, ignored all day, began to clamour.  He must get home at once.  No outre proceedings must raise the easy breath of gossip.  He must not flinch, he dared not run away, all must be done decently and in order.  Let him only keep his head now—­the bravest man need not look too far into the morrow.

It must be late, he knew.  The road into Coombe was deserted.  All the buggies of the country folk returning from evening service had passed long ago and even the happy young couples indulging in a Sunday night “after church” flirtation had decorously sought their homes.  He looked at his watch by the clear starlight.  It was later even than he had thought.  No need to avoid passing the Elms, now; they would all be asleep—­he might perhaps be able to sleep himself if he knew that no light burned in Esther’s window.

There was no light in the house anywhere.  It stood black in the shadow of its trees.  The doctor found himself walking softly.  His steps grew slower, paused.  Irresistibly the “spirit in his feet” drew him to the closed gate from where he could see the black oblong of her window.